


Twelve Days of Solstice

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Beast Has No Chill, Brief thoughts of suicide, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Moments of Graphic Description, Religious Conflict, Self-Hatred, Slight pining, The Beast Wanting More, Transformation, Unrequited Friendship, Zealot Reynauld, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: Bigby was so used to being treated like the Beast that he nearly forgot what it was like to feel otherwise.During the twelve nights of their winter Solstice celebration, an unexpected friend helps to remind Bigby of what it is to be cared for.
Relationships: Abomination & Vestal (Darkest Dungeon)
Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057325
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. Start of Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-imposed project I started this month and will, _hopefully_ , be able to finish by each deadline I set for this winter collection. Bigby's one-shot in particular ended up being WAY longer than I meant for it to be, so I had to split it into two chapters hah. (It was supposed to be one of the shorter ones, but I suppose Bigby really did just need a friend and I had fun exploring his concept).
> 
> I wanted to give nods to Christmas, Hanukkah, and even Yuletide celebrations with the Twelve Days of Solstice concept, while still keeping it tied to the Light since we have so little to go on in-game religion.

**1\. Twelve Days of Solstice**

Bigby was lonely.

It was nothing unusual. In fact, it was generally for the best that Bigby was by himself, as  _ far _ from others as he could manage on a weekly basis without being sent out on an expedition by the Heir. He had been at the Hamlet for over half a year now, so  _ everyone _ was painfully aware of his particular brand of uncontrolled violence when he relinquished his hold on the chains that bound him to passivity. Blissful,  _ weak  _ passivity. 

Really, it was safer this way, Bigby firmly told himself, safer for his friends to be held at arm's length; for their sakes, mostly, but also for his own. He got attached easily, and the simplest way to avoid the heartache of unrequited fondness was to avoid it entirely. 

If they could even be called his friends, the darker, sensible side of him mused. 

The others were celebrating their winter Solstice, today being the first of twelve evenings of Light celebrated by those under the Eternal Flame’s care. Bigby was only familiar with the ritual by way of his past life, before the torture and mutation turned him from the Light, before he was bestowed with the  _ curse  _ that pumped rancid ichor hot beneath his skin with a sickly green. 

Back when he was more man than beast, Bigby balanced the scale of science and religion, his passions within the labs but his comforts found in the monastery. 

Now, he was a creature of neither, and the church made sure he remained mindful of his terrible status as Eldritch beast and lowly vagrant, seeming to barely endure him more than if a Swine-folk had wandered into the village. The blood-priests and holy knights and hallowed nuns of the Eternal Flame rejected Bigby, some even going as far as to refuse being in the same party as him, insisting that the Light could not bless them in Bigby’s vicinity.

The logical side of his crumbling mind couldn’t help but wonder if that were true, but it’s not like he could  _ blame  _ them -- Bigby knew better than any of the Hamlet’s denizens what he was capable of. 

Damian had frowned in his gruesome way, the stark gap of his missing tooth incongruous to the bloodied yellow of his snarl, and claimed he needed to whip himself clean of the sin that was Bigby’s presence after a particularly violent expedition to the Weald. The freshly wrought flail marks latticing his body upon their return proved the only means Damian might tolerate the likes of Bigby.

Reynauld was no better, no less vocal of his disdain for an unclean abomination, and the first time the Heir had positioned Bigby behind the Crusader, Reynauld might as well have spat his own Beast’s bile at the cowered man. “ **_I will not serve with this… creature._ ** ” The words rang harsh in Bigby’s mind, and he would not forget them, deserved or not, as he stepped out of line and was replaced with another, more acceptable, warm body.

And Junia…

A scent caught Bigby’s attention sooner than the figure approaching him came into view, both familiar and unusual. She wore her typical cowl and head wrap, her battle attire now replaced with holy Solstice garbs that fitted her slight figure flatteringly, though Bigby never lingered on it. 

The little Vestal was never around him for long regardless.

He wasn’t sure of her name, nor why she was approaching him when the rest of the Hamlet was below preparing for the night’s celebration while Bigby was sat on the outskirts, perched atop a small hill beneath a weathered tree dead with the season.

Twilight was cloaking the already cold air of winter with its added chill, and the dimming blues and pinks were pretty on the woman’s tan face as she drew close.

She must be  _ new _ , to approach him.

“Hello, good sir,” the Vestal spoke with a cautious friendliness that one might approach a wild dog on the side of the road with, or a disfigured homeless man draped in chains and dirt. She stopped just a few feet away from him and raised a hand in greeting, strangely polite. “Are you well?”

_ Very new,  _ Bigby thought to himself, utterly perplexed. 

Bigby cleared his throat, as if reminding his voice muscles how to work, then said with a raspy croak, “What do you want?”

“Merely to introduce myself.” Another oddity. Bigby raised his thin eyebrow -- the only one he had -- and if his appalling appearance, rude demeanor, or voice like a rusted door hinge scared the poor girl, then she bravely swallowed her fear and smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met before now. My name is Esther.”

_ Esther _ . Esther their strange new Vestal. Bigby tried not to commit it to memory, tried not to bother with niceties when this frail thing would either befall the same, gruesome fate as Junia had some weeks prior or harshly be reminded of their polarized standings. 

Regardless of the direction, the outcome would be the same and Bigby would be alone.

Alone with the Beast.

She had her hands clasped before her, an anxious fidgeting of her thumbs honing the Beast’s latent attention, her cordial cough catching Bigby’s disjointed attention. “What’s yours?”

Bigby was aghast at Esther’ innocence and ignorance, and rudely sputtered, “Y-You haven’t been told of me?”

The youthful, tinkling laugh that Bigby received made him shiver, made the Beast prickle to life somewhere on the back burner of his mind. Here was a lovely thing, willing to walk within snatching range and trade gentle greetings with the vessel of the Beast, blissfully unaware of the danger she tempted fate with. Bigby swallowed back whatever vicious demands the Beast might have made of her like bile in his throat as he so desperately  _ longed  _ for a semblance of normalcy; normalcy that Esther naively proffered with both hands, a soft laugh, and a kind smile.

“Someone must think highly of himself,” the small woman teased --  _ teased!  _ Bantered, joked, baited, _ enticed _ , **_provoked_ ** _ \-- _ and Bigby swallowed a bile of thoughts once more. Esther had no clue how far from the truth her playful accusation was. “I’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

He was aware. Bigby was aware of all who came and gone, and had noticed the new Vestal, still a novice in her craft, take up residence in the abbey the same week Junia had been dead in the ground, too lost to insanity to save herself or others. Junia’s death had haunted Bigby more than any of the others so far, remembering how she laughed and wept at the pigs of St. Martha’s wrenching her from the ghost of her mother as Junia marked herself for death.

It had been the first mission Junia had stepped into the mud of Bigby’s presence with, her smile gone whenever she gazed upon him, but her heals holy and welcomed nonetheless.

And it was so that the chantry had easily blamed Bigby in large part for her falling from grace into madness. He vividly remembered the look on her face, grin cracked and Light absent from her eyes, when Bigby transformed back into a human and sent the poor woman spiraling to her fitful demise as his horns shrunk and his hackles disappeared, gore still at his muzzle.

“You’re going to bore me to  _ death  _ if you’re not careful,” Esther spoke, whimsical, raising a hand to hide her obvious smile when her unintentional word choice viscerally shook Bigby from his bloody memories. “Now, what’s your name?”

“B-Bigby.”

His name came out as another rusted croak, nails grating against wood, but it didn’t seem to bother Esther who merely nodded. 

“Well then,” she turned to look back at the Hamlet, now coated in the dusk of night, as lights began to flicker to life to signal the start of the festival. There would be food and singing and prayer each of the nights, a lighting of one massive brazier for each day that passed, then finally, a gorgeous candelabra with twelve candles would be lit by the holy flame. 

It had been Junia’s favorite holiday, or so he’d overheard from Reynauld. 

“Feel free to join us tonight,” Esther’ smile was infectious and might have spread to Bigby, if he hadn’t known just how misguided and undeserved it was. “I have to get back, but it was nice to meet you, Bigby.”

She left, then, leaving him alone with the solitude of the Beast now humming at her departure, alone with the warmth of hearing his name without its usual scorn or vitriol. He didn’t join Esther or the rest of the Hamlet for their feast, out of respect, out of hate, and let the loneliness take him in a fitful sleep to the sounds of distant revelry.

That night, Bigby had dreamt of death, laughing and sobbing death, strands of hair forcibly pulled from a bloodied headwrap and ruined Versebook torn at his feet. 

...

The next time Esther approached him on his lonely hill, Bigby was just as surprised.

It was the next evening of the Solstice celebration. He had watched the first night pass from afar and didn’t bother imagining himself within the warmth and festivity below, as unobtainable as it was. Restless, he tried to fall asleep to the sound of distant prayers and laughter, then tried to wake up from the haunting dreams that plagued him. 

Sometimes, Bigby worried he might fall asleep a man and wake up a Beast by his dreams alone; it hadn’t happened yet, and probably would never happen, blessed be, but it was yet another reason Bigby slept apart from the Hamlet.

Esther found him in the same, hunched over position as if to hide himself from her approach, and she greeted him with something in her hands.

A candle, long and white and new.

“Good evening, Bigby,” Esther said with that same, pleasant tone as before.

“...Hello.”

"The second celebration is starting soon," she gestured to the gathering behind them, in the Hamlet's center square. It was an exact copy of the first night, only now there were two braziers lit with the holy flame, flickering bold and bright against the harsh white of winter that coated the town. "Do you want to join us?"

Bigby swallowed the mud in his throat, clenched strangely tight at Esther's polite offer once more. The rest of the Hamlet rarely spared Bigby a second glance, but this woman had trekked through the sludge of dirty snow up to his secluded spot on the hill  _ twice  _ now. 

Somehow, denying her a second time was even harder than the first as Bigby slowly shook his head and answered, "I-I can't."

Whether or not Esther knew it by now, Bigby would be denied entrance immediately upon trying, he knew -- if not for the holy Crusader or the age-worn abbot, then for his own shame in partaking. It would be a sham of an effort, his fragile smile, his bowed shoulders, his rattling chains. All greeted with the same fear, disgust,  _ loathing  _ that he knew the other adventurers held for him, secretly or overtly so. 

They seemed only mindful of their stares and frowns when powerful enemies lay sundered at their feet from the Beast.

But Esther hadn't seen that side of him yet, Bigby mused, hadn’t seen what Bigby and his inner dirty secret could do when unleashed, and so she timidly held out the candle and continued. "Then would you like to light the second candle of Solstice  _ here _ ? I managed to find one of the abbot's spares."

He was aghast once more by Esther’s unusual antics. This was a woman of the  _ church _ , a pious Vestal of Light, pristine in nature and holy accord, a person Bigby might have deeply revered in a different life before the Beast tainted him. This beacon of Light was not meant to be juxtaposed by his own unscrupulous nature, blackened and broken like Junia had been before her. So far, Esther had been kind and patient, more so than any other servants of the Light, and -- and was risking her status among the others for  _ him _ . The Beast's abeyance seemed to purr at that, and Bigby all but hushed it.

"...Please l-leave me be."

It was rude and terrible of him, but it was all Bigby could do for her, to repay Esther for her selfless goodwill lest she fall from grace like her predecessor. Lest she lose the respect of her peers, perhaps be excommunicated from the church entirely, or  _ worse -- _

Bigby shuddered, and Esther took pity on him by acquiescing. She stooped low and placed the bare candle upright in the thin sheet of snow before him, so close, as close as was respectable for anyone other than an  _ Abomination _ . Closer than any had dared outside of an expedition, and the Beast immediately caught a better whiff of her scent.

" _W-W-What are you doing_ \-- " On instinct, Bigby pressed himself back, pressed the _Beast_ back, harshly, as far into the trunk of the tree sheltering them as it would allow, splintering some of the craggy bark into his skin. The bite of it steadied him a bit, distracted him from the Beast's insistence for more. More kindness, more proximity, _more blood and rage and_ ** _lust_** \-- Bigby squeezed his eyes shut tight, angry at himself for abusing this poor woman's naivety, angry at the Beast for wanting anything at all from her. Violence or otherwise, it was all ill-intent where his wretched curse was involved. 

Esther merely watched him, curiously so, then looked to the scuffs Bigby had created in the slushy snow between them amid his haste, and was quiet when she spoke. "Each candle lit before Solstice has a purpose, you know."

He knew and had lit the candles himself once -- long ago, when it might’ve mattered. 

"The first candle is to honor all those who have given the ultimate blood sacrifice in the name of the Light and Eternal Flame. The  _ second _ ," Esther paused and dug in her robe for a moment, then pulled out some flint, and laid it next to the candle. "Is to forgive our own sins and past grievances."

She said that as if salvation were right there, right within reach, his for the taking as if he deserved it. Bigby shook his head and turned away, biting down the temptation that both man and Beast roared in his mind.

It wasn’t that easy. 

"Then give it to someone who  _ can _ be s-saved," Bigby muttered harshly enough to send Esther back to her feet.

"I just did."

Her voice was coy, playful still, not  _ pitying _ exactly but painfully understanding despite Bigby's constant attempts to push her away. The Vestal bowed and bid him farewell after that, rushing off to her Solstice ceremony and leaving Bigby just as alone as the night prior. Warm, confused, aching. 

The damned woman was treating Bigby as if he were far more human than he truly was, and he couldn't help but feel as if he were tricking the poor lass somehow. Guilt washed over him, made worse by the Beast's constant scratching at the door of control. 

Bigby lit the candle regardless, if nothing else than for the meager warmth it filled his bones with.

…

For the third day in a row, Esther came to him, with Bigby still huddled beneath his threadbare shroud atop the hill overlooking the Hamlet's square.

Because of the holiday and to honor their fallen heroes, the Heir had opted not to send out any further expeditions until the Solstice was over. Bigby believed the unspoken truth lay more in how shaken the Heir was to lose Junia -- the departed Vestal had been with the Hamlet since nearly the beginning, just after Dismas and Reynauld had helped escort the Heir nearly a year prior. 

Esther's likeness to her, while not unexpected as a Vestal, was still unsettling for Bigby.

Today, she carried something new in her hands that, even from far away, clearly wasn't a candle. It was in a small terracotta pot and covered with what appeared to be an old cowl, similar to the one Esther wore.

"W-What's this?" Bigby questioned when the woman was close enough to hear. She was red in the cheeks, most likely from the cold, and it emphasized how young she was. Couldn't have been more than early twenties, his instincts told him, based on how innocent and candid Esther was. She clearly didn't fit in with the rest of her Sisters yet, or at least, not the way her predecessor had. Not if she was so willingly seeking Bigby’s company.

"A daisy sapling!" she exclaimed, holding it towards Bigby as if to prove her point. "I've been charged with tending the abbey's garden, since there aren’t any expeditions for now.”

Bigby steeled the Beast at her approach, irritated with himself at how much Esther’s presence affected him; he immediately felt warmer around her and his woes were momentarily forgotten. It was an intoxicating sense of  _ peace  _ that Esther tempted him with, unknowingly so, a soft thing in his chest lanceted by the Beast’s ever-present hunger.

“And is  _ this  _ going to wash away my s-sins as w-well?”

He surprised himself -- humor and sarcasm were as foreign to Bigby as all other means of companionship that wasn’t limited to dire warnings and wild rage amidst heated battles. Even when they made camp for the night, the others in his party would normally spare him distance.

Esther, however, jumped on the shred of humanity with a quick laugh and a wide grin. “Actually, a white daisy  _ does  _ symbolize new beginnings, or so I'm told."

Taken aback, Bigby chewed his lip. He wasn’t familiar with the poetic meanings behind flowers, but had studied some for medicinal purposes during his profession. To his knowledge, daisies had a historic use as a mild astringent anti-inflammatory, though were becoming an increasingly invasive species that had been found to have certain mutations when collected near -- no. No, Bigby was no longer in his lab, no longer spurred by scientific pursuits, and he no longer had use for such pretty things in his life now. When he looked back up to Esther to politely decline, he stopped himself short at the hopeful gleam in her dark brown eyes. 

“Th-Thanks,” he quietly said instead, accepting the budding daisy with a nod. 

He wasn’t sure how he would care for a flower while in the cold, hardly able to care for himself, but the Vestal’s smile made him want to try.

“This was the last of the abbey’s flowers, unfortunately. The Father wanted to make room for parsnips and potatoes, and ordered me to remove them all. They normally die off in winter, anyway, but this one is  _ particularly  _ resilient,” Esther seemed almost proud of the tiny plant, as if she had grown it from seedling herself. Softer, then, Esther smiled and gestured to the pot, “If you care for it, someday it will bloom prettily.”

That stalled whatever response Bigby might have had, surprised at just how…  _ thoughtful  _ that was. Useless to him now, but thoughtful nonetheless. Bigby hadn’t been given a Solstice gift in decades, or any other sort of gift for that matter, and he told Esther as much with a weak smile.

“Then we’ll have to fix that,” she said before departing with a wave. Bigby was wary as he also waved goodbye -- wary of Esther’s kindness, wary of the Hamlet’s backlash, wary of his own growing feelings of fondness.

...And yet, he was looking forward to tomorrow for the first time in years.

...

He was too anxious. 

The hours seemed to pass slower when Bigby was looking forward to something than when he was lonely and forgotten, background noise to the lively Hamlet. He had to admit to himself that he was tentatively happy for Esther’s evening visit, as brief as they were, and he was heady from the dangerous cocktail of greed and guilt. 

To distract himself, Bigby ventured to one of the few places in the Hamlet where he felt welcomed -- if only because Paracelsus was a fan of the weird and warped. 

Bigby occasionally spent his afternoons there in her clinic, allowing the doctor to poke and prod him and tear him apart for whatever lay beneath; the Beast kept his wounds from being too dire, which let Paracelsus bottle his ichor for unsaid purposes and gave Bigby something to do. It was an… odd arrangement, to say the least, but Bigby remembered how precious scientific study was to him in his human prime, and what he would have given to obtain a subject that could heal on command. 

Really, he was happy to be of use to someone, even if Paracelsus’ conversational skills were on par with his own; clearly Bigby was already getting too used to Esther steering their small nightly chats.

“A flower, hm?” Paracelsus tutted in her usual way, which echoed in her beak as she stared down it to Bigby’s open wound. It seeped a sickly green, courtesy of his mutation, as the Plague Doctor meticulously tested the limits of the Beast’s hold. Paracelsus was one of a small handful of people within the Hamlet who didn’t fear awakening that side of him, and not because she was brave or stupid, but clinical.  _ Curious _ . Like Bigby once was. It was… soothing, in a way. “My expertise generally leans towards a fungal variety of plantlife, but I suppose I can help you.”

He was grateful to her -- grateful for her company and her assistance with the daisy sapling, then grateful for the small bowl of food she provided for his blood levels after.

When he finally left the clinic, the day was starting it’s slow course into evening, so he anxiously turned back towards his hill, suddenly stressed at the thought of Esther showing up to an abandoned tree. Would she think Bigby had grown tired of her and moved on? Would she hate him for his sudden departure?

In his haste, Bigby turned a sharp corner and all but barreled into the tiny Vestal who let out a soft sound in surprise as she fell back, though Bigby’s quick reflexes caught her by the shoulders and steadied her on instinct. He muttered a quick apology then and retracted his hands just as quickly, as though he’d been burned; human contact was not something he could handle very well yet, not unless it was Paracelsus cutting him open and putting him back together. 

“Bigby!” Esther spoke, sounding more surprised than irritated or revolted by his transgression. She was holding something in her hands that she fumbled with: a small ceramic kettle with two matching cups. 

An old tea set. 

“P-Pardon, miss…” Bigby immediately put some distance between the two of them, lest anyone see. They were in the middle of the Hamlet and Bigby felt far too exposed in the town, too vulnerable and anxious, though luckily most of their companions were by the church preparing for the fourth night of Solstice.

“I was just getting ready for our visit before the ceremony started,” Esther explained, then held up the little kettle. “Perhaps instead, we could have tea at the abbey tonight.”

She said it like a question, as if she were daring him to join the festival. 

He wouldn’t.  _ Couldn’t. _

Bigby shook his head solemnly, his long patch of unruly hair sweeping his shoulder as he did so, ever-present frown cutting his face in two as he forced himself to deny Esther for the fourth time. He wondered when she would finally give up.

Instead of doing just that, as perhaps she should have, as perhaps Bigby should have  _ wanted her to _ , Esther instead just nodded, like she had expected that. “Then the tavern?”

No,  _ no _ , there were too many people who could spot them together, too many opportunities for others to condemn Junia --  _ Esther, _ he furiously corrected himself -- and too many ways the little Vestal would endanger herself if seen with the likes of Bigby. If not just her reputation with the church, than with the Beast’s growing hunger for her, whatever that would entail. Abomination that he may be, Bigby wouldn’t let  _ either  _ happen to Esther, not if he could help it.

He’d sooner go back to being lonely again than put her at risk of the church or the Beast. 

“Well then, I have just the place,” Esther walked off then, undeterred by Bigby’s prior rude refusals of the more populated areas, and he felt little choice other than to obediently follow the small woman. He supposed he could have left her, then, as he very well  _ should  _ have if his threadbare morality were still a matter of importance to him, but as it stood, his need for human connection far outweighed his shrinking sense of responsible martyrdom. 

As they walked, with Esther leading, Bigby forced himself to keep a wide berth of healthy respect and less-healthy anxiety, hating the sound of the chains gently clinking with each step he took. If Esther were perturbed by it, she didn’t show it, and Bigby was grateful. 

When they finally stopped, it was at a place Bigby had never been to before -- he’d never be welcomed anywhere near it, if not for Esther’s insistence. 

The Altar of Light was an ugly, squalid thing with two looming, robed statues flanking a massive pillar with a skull, the symbol of the Holy Light, and Eternal Flame carved into it like a hulking tombstone. It gave Bigby ominous chills, but Esther seemed overly-comfortable as she took a seat at one of the small tables near it and gestured to the opposite chair.

Bigby sat as instructed, embarrassed at just how  _ tamed  _ he felt by the little Vestal.

Part of him worried that if he disobeyed, Esther would realize her mistake in trying to temper him in the first place. The table didn’t provide anywhere  _ near  _ as much space between them as Bigby normally insisted on having, to separate the Beast from any unwanted -- or in the Beast’s case,  **_very much wanted_ ** _ \-- _ scents. The last thing he needed to worry about was a lapse in control while so close to the first kind soul willing to look his way and offer friendship. Bigby was shamed at the thought, embarrassed of his conscripted nature, and tried to focus on breathing techniques to still his nerves, but that only brought him headier waves of Esther’s skin.

He was beyond grateful when the tea began to boil and encompassed them both in fragrant herbal clouds of distraction for the Beast. 

A silence settled between them as they waited for the tea, and Bigby realized he might have been expected to help, or to pour it for her; he wasn’t confident in interactions or etiquette any longer, though Esther didn’t seem to mind when she eventually poured him a cup. 

“Can I ask you a question?” she finally spoke as she handed him the ceramic mug.

It was hot to the touch, nearly scalding, but Bigby had no mind for it, nervous that he was -- he assumed he knew what Esther was going to ask about,  _ finally _ , after four days of tolerating his awkward presence. Really, Bigby knew this day was coming, the day where Esther would question after the Beast’s existence, or question after some other horrible thing Bigby had involuntarily done as the Beast to make his reputation so well known.

The day Esther would wisen up and leave him to be alone once more.

Bigby nodded anyway. It was inevitable that she would leave, though he couldn’t help but wish he might postpone it.

"Why do you fear the townsfolk so much?"

Shock and disbelief washed over the Abomination, huddled beneath his ratty shawl, greasy hair covering half his face, blistering cup still in his hand. Did Esther really believe it was  _ him  _ who lived in fear of the others? Who turned away one of their own as if he were a spot of filth on their otherwise pristine lives? He bit his lip at the thought, realizing that after all this time, after the way he had treated Esther’s unconditional kindness, that perhaps she had the truth of it. But it was not without reason that Bigby avoided them, so he cleared his throat and answered: "It is  _ them  _ who fear…  _ m-me _ ." 

**Who fear** **_us_ ** _ ,  _ the Beast within corrected. Bigby was never allowed to forget, it seemed.

Esther was quiet for a moment, as if digesting his words and the fear, the resignation, behind them, and pensively sipped her tea. When she spoke, it was slowly, as if to help a foreigner better understand them. “Whatever you did to make them fear you, it can't be  _ that  _ bad. Sir Barristan respects you,” which was true, Bigby realized. “Same with the doctor and a few others, like Tardif and Amani.”

Bigby quickly shoved away her words of comfort with a shake of his head, refusing them. “Barristan is strategic to a f-fault. He knows a good t-tool when he sees one,” insisted Bigby, feeling a strange irritation at Esther’s patient smile. “Paracelsus likes having a live test subject at her disposal, T-Tardif has an affinity for violence and Amani… Amani is em-empathetic.”

The Shieldbreaker likewise had her own Eldritch curse that haunted her from the desert sands, though she was far better at fighting  _ hers  _ than Bigby was the Beast.

Esther’s responding chuckle was a thing of affection, of  _ annoyance _ , to Bigby, who yet again tried and failed to force the Vestal to understand. “If you put as much effort into  _ making  _ friends as you do  _ distancing  _ yourself from them, the entire Hamlet might adore you yet.”

Overwhelmed, dumbfounded, Bigby lost his voice and felt his face heat with embarrassment, which he attempted to hide behind the steaming mug. There was something wrong with this Vestal, surely -- nothing else made sense as to why she couldn’t be dissuaded from his presence, why she seemed intent to cosset him while others wrinkled their nose at him. Between her easy smiles, his own loneliness, and the Beast’s howling at the gate, rattling his chains, Bigby felt helpless to her misplaced charm.

Mouth dry, words gone, Bigby brought the ceramic mug to his lips and drank the tea in one large gulp to wet his clenched throat, enjoying the way it burned going down. It had steeped for far too long, Bigby mused, but he realized he didn’t mind as much as he might have once; tea was a rarity in his life now, and gentle company even more so.

A shadow fell across them suddenly, and they both stiffened as someone shouted: 

“Get away from her,  _ fiend! _ ”

Bigby was upright instantly, aghast, cornered,  _ caught _ , and with a terrible noise and lanceting pain in his hand, realized he had shattered the ceramic mug in his surprise.

Reynauld stood over them like a testament to the Light, hand at the hilt of his blade and mouth contorted in righteous fury, to which Bigby quickly held his arms over his face defensively -- Reynauld had been known to attack someone for far less in the name of the Holy Light. There was vile blood dripping from Bigby’s hand from the gash in his hand, putrid trails of yellowish green and red following the contours of his gaunt wrist and thinly muscled forearm. The Crusader leered at it as if Bigby might transform from the wound alone. 

In his panic at seeing the holy man, Bigby cowered behind his hands and breathed out, “R-R-Reyn-nauld, I -- ”

“ _ Silence!” _ the towering man interrupted, as if his name was corruption on Bigby’s lips, then turned to Esther who looked just as shocked by Reynauld’s presence as the Abomination was. “You there. Young Vestal. Back away from the beast slowly.”

Esther didn’t comply, just furrowed her dark brows at Reynauld’s order, so Bigby tried to comply  _ for  _ her and pushed his chair further away from the bewildered Vestal.

“What is the meaning of this, sir knight?”

Reynauld merely raised a bushy eyebrow at her apparent lack of urgency, or perhaps at her resistance to following his immediate orders; the holy folk in the Hamlet had an internal hierarchy of sorts, and Reynauld was frequently near the top of it. He was used to being obeyed by the men and women of the chantry. Those glacier blue eyes of his flicked to the kettle between them, then to Bigby, then back to Esther. “It seems this foul creature has tricked you for your kindness.”

Though he had frequently been wondering that himself these past four days, if he could somehow have tricked the other woman for her stubborn companionship despite trying to force her away, Bigby still shook his head. “N-N-No, I -- I wouldn’t!”

“He most certainly has  _ not _ ,” Esther insisted forcefully, and both Bigby and Reynauld were surprised by her tone. “Bigby has been nothing but gentlemanly from day one, sir.”

They both gaped at that, though surely for different reasons, and Bigby was suddenly struck with an overwhelming appreciation for the Vestal, something painful prickling behind his eyes, but Reynauld merely rubbed at his temple with his freehand not still trained on the sword. “From day -- ” he repeated with exasperation. “ _ Light above _ , Vestal, you’re already under his wretched influence.”

Bigby wanted to apologize, wanted to leave immediately and escape from this, run from this Vestal’s ruin as he had done before, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave her to deal with the remnants of her reputation, with her affiliation to the Eternal Flame, all turned to ash by her mere association with the Abomination. 

She surprised them both once more. 

“Please, sir Reynauld, have a bit of respect for my competence,” said Esther, who sounded like she might have continued if not for their differing ranks within the church. She lowered her head respectfully then, and added, “I assure you, I’m here of my own volition.”

Both men turned to her then, as if she had suddenly turned into the Hag, and Reynauld asked the same question Bigby had been dying to ask as well, but had been too afraid to.

“ _ Why _ ?”

Esther huffed in disbelief, took a polite sip of her tea which was most likely cold by now, then finally answered, “Because it’s the will of the Light to care for those in need, isn’t it? This poor man is in  _ dire  _ need of human kindness, from what I’ve seen these past weeks.” She said it so plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing, and Bigby felt those pricks of emotion back at his eyes, squeezing his chest painfully. Was this what friendship felt like? It couldn’t be, the little Vestal had only known Bigby for four days, and only in brief visits, on top of being blissfully unaware of what he truly was. They were practically strangers, as far as Esther should have been concerned, so why…?

Yet she stood up to Reynauld’s religious bullying for him, for  _ him _ , when no one else in the Hamlet would dare. Perhaps Esther considered herself invaluable since they had no other Vestal to speak of --

The thought made his stomach twist painfully, so Bigby shrank away from that idea.

“You know not what you say, Vestal,” Reynauld growled, but had removed his hand from his sword hilt, though his ice-storm eyes continued to flick to Bigby, as if watching for sudden movements or signs of his transformation. “This ‘poor man’ is an  _ insult  _ to the Light. I suggest you be wary.”

He left after that, like a bellowing storm come and gone, and Bigby was bewildered at how little damage there seemed to be in its wake. 

Esther, however, let out an aggravated sound then quickly downed the rest of her cold tea. When she spoke, Bigby was again left speechless at her tone. “By the Holy Flame, that Crusader can be heartlessly righteous at times. I’m sorry he treated you that way.”

Bigby had nothing he knew how to say, bereft of any speech to unwind the threads of emotion that were starting to fray from overuse. He felt chafed, aching, and the pricking behind his eyes nearly spilled over before he clutched at his face with his unbloodied hand. He couldn’t process what had just transpired, couldn’t understand why Esther would stand up for him and risk her status with the church, with the Hamlet, and wished for nothing more than having never met the poor girl. She would be better off that way, surely.

But then he sensed her coming closer, reaching for him, and he tensed with a pull of his lips, dropping his hand to reveal a snarl on his face that she flinched back at. 

Ashamed, Bigby quickly composed himself, then quietly, she asked,” Can I heal you?”

For a long moment, Bigby wasn’t sure what the Vestal meant by that;  _ heal him _ ? How could he be healed by a simple spell? Didn’t she think he had tried that by now, many times over, whether it was to heal his body of the Beast that haunted him, or heal his soul of the ache it felt when he was alone for too long?

A single glance at Esther told him that, no, she didn’t mean any of those things. She  _ couldn’t  _ mean those things, not if she didn’t know about them to begin with. Bigby’s hand still bled freely, though he hardly noticed it until Esther reached for it again.

“I can do it,” he snapped rudely, nervous stutter gone for a moment. He was scared of what would happen if she tried to touch him, had to avoid that at all costs, he told himself.

Esther pulled back then and watched as Bigby tore out the bit of ruined ceramic -- which he still felt guilty for breaking on accident -- then murmured the words of absolution that healed wounds and reduced his stress. When he looked back up, feeling marginally better than he had moments ago, Esther was watching him with wide eyes; the wound was gone, yes, but the traces of his tainted blood remained. Bigby flushed with embarrassment, then hid his hand beneath his shawl and cleared his throat, suddenly anxious under her scrutiny. “R-Reynauld is r-right, you know.” He hated to admit, to ever admit that the Crusader was justified in his harsh treatments of him, but Bigby wouldn’t lie to Esther. “You  _ should  _ be… w-wary of me.”

“Why?” Esther spoke, defiant once more. “Why should I be wary?”

Bigby lifted his chains which dangled from his wrist shackles, glinting prettily in the setting sun as if they were something far sweeter, something that wasn’t just the barrier between him and destruction. “Because of what I am.”

“And what are you?” 

He swallowed, formed the words, then swallowed again as if he could be rid of his true nature, of what he really was merely by staying quiet. But Esther deserved better, so he spoke.

“...An abomination.” The words were strangled, forced out through a strainer of self-loathing and fear of what Esther might think of him now, and if she didn’t know what an Abomination was, she certainly would soon. Bigby didn’t want to be around for that moment, for the inevitable look of horror and disgust in Esther’s once kind eyes, so he tried to thank her for the tea, for everything she had done for him these past few days, but couldn’t manage to... 

...So he ran.

…

That was the end of things, Bigby told himself. If that damned Vestal had any sense at all, any inkling of self-preservation, she’d be gone from his life for good. If the lass knew what was best for her, she would even refuse any potential expeditions the Heir might send them on together, like her predecessor had, until the day Junia had tried to trust him. The day she fell to her demise.

If Esther wanted to avoid a similar fate, then that was it. Bigby was finally rid of her.

He tried to be glad, tried to feel heroic, despite the crumbling sensation hollowing out his chest. With their brief friendship ending, Bigby had saved the Vestal from himself. 

It was all he could give her.

As things stood, it made no sense for Bigby to return to Paracelsus’ clinic for the sake of checking on the daisy sapling and should have instead just let it wither and die, but strangely, that idea was painful. Like Bigby was turning his back on Esther for a second time.

_...a white daisy  _ does  _ symbolize new beginnings _ , he recalled her saying with a flush. It was a moot point now, so he didn’t understand his own reluctance to let it die yet. Pensive, Bigby made his way back to the tree on the outskirts of the Hamlet, bare feet numb from the snow, sun already split in half by the horizon line and well past the time Esther would have come and gone. Twilight was coming sooner these days, leading up to Solstice eve when the night was longest.

A cold wind chilled his face and he stopped,  _ stunned _ , as if the gentle breeze mussing his hair and swinging his chains had been a cannon instead.

_ She was waiting for him _ .

Bigby took a deep breath of her scent on the wind to be sure, but he trusted his nose, trusted the Beast’s receptive,  _ reactive _ , sense of smell that snarled excitedly in his mind in response to her near presence. Irritated at himself, at the Beast, and at  _ Esther  _ for being too stubborn for her own good, Bigby momentarily considered turning and running as far from that heady scent as possible, but couldn’t. He and the Beast were weak to her, wanted her presence, wanted everything she would allow them. He was selfish, greedy, as terrible as the church insisted he was for letting his path continue to her.

Esther sat in the Abomination’s normal spot beneath the dead tree, reading from her Versebook and playing with her coat idly. She had a bag in her hands that smelled warm and sweet, even from this distance, and Bigby refused himself from taking another whiff.

He needed to be firm on this. On sending her away once and for all.

As he approached, Esther finally looked up from her Versebook and smiled, putting it away and standing to greet him.

“What are you d-doing h-here?” Bigby bit out, trying for the life of him to sound intimidating and forceful, not unlike how the world at large seemed to see him, but failing with embarrassment when he stuttered pathetically. As per usual, the little Vestal wasn’t put off by his rude lack of decorum and just widened her grin up at him.

“Waiting for you.”

Bigby was about to scold her, was about to snarl or spit or do whatever he could to scare the lass off just short of transforming, but stopped short when she thrust the bag of heat and strong scents at him.

The bag was tied with a little bow to keep the warmth inside, and Bigby eyed it warily.

"For you," she prompted.

With a careful hand, Bigby reached out and plucked the bag from her palms, meticulously avoiding touching Esther, but curious as to what she was forcing onto him this time. His blunt fingertips were clumsy with the string of the bow, but eventually unthreaded the twine and let the bag fall open, filling his senses with that sweet heat within. Momentarily confused, Bigby furrowed his brow, looking at the small blackened lumps that smelled of sugar and spices, then looked up to the Vestal.

“ _ Cookies _ ?” 

Esther looked sheepish and fidgeted. “They were supposed to be. I was never as blessed in the kitchen as my Sisters.”

They were burnt and misshapen and crumbled at the edges when Bigby involuntarily clenched his hand with the strange anguish that filled him -- then he quickly forced himself to loosen his grip when he saw the way the cookies were almost crushed. Almost broken, like the tea mug, almost ruined like most things Bigby tried to hold dear to him. To Esther, he looked up, face muscles aching painfully from the force of the frown cut deep in his face. 

“Why are you d-doing this for m- _ me _ ?”

Her answer yesterday to Reynauld’s question of  _ ‘why’  _ wasn’t enough for him. It wasn’t enough that Esther felt like it was her personal duty to the Light to see to Bigby’s wellbeing when no one else would, not even himself. It wasn’t enough that in the five days they’d spoken now, Esther was the kindest, most selfless person Bigby had ever met, despite every reason she had to loathe him, especially based on Bigby’s callous treatment of her. Like she had the day before when Reynauld questioned her motives, Esther merely huffed in impatient disbelief like it was obvious.

“ _ Because _ ,” her voice was sharp and pointed, and Bigby was surprised Esther could manage to sound so brusque. “It’s the winter Solstice festival, and since you refuse to join, I have to bring it to you instead.”

That same strange emotion that had itched at Bigby’s eyes yesterday now pooled in his chest and caught in his throat, an ocean of noval feelings welling in a clamor of confusion that he was scared to linger on. He forced himself to speak past it, voice sounding raw and tender like a strained muscle, weak from the struggle of finding the words he hated to say,  _ needed  _ to say. 

“B-But you know what I am now.”

Esther crossed her arms and glared at him, and Bigby flinched from her ire, desperate that he was for it before now. “Yes, I vividly recall you running off yesterday after warning me.”

“And yet you won’t heed it,” Bigby whispered, looking to the burnt cookies.

“Well, you’ve given me no reason to be wary of you, Bigby,” stated the Vestal. Her tone dissuaded any arguments, and though Bigby was going to argue regardless that his very nature was reason enough to be wary, he found he couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t  _ want  _ Esther to fear and hate him, he didn’t want  _ anyone  _ to, but especially not the person who was giving him chance after chance to be more than a horrific Abomination. To be  _ human _ . At his silence, Esther looked flustered, cheeks reddening in a way Bigby found pretty, and eventually huffed an irritated noise. “Look, I know they’re a tad overcooked, so you don’t have to eat them if you don’t want -- ”

Before she could finish her sentence, Bigby brought the bag of cookies to his face, opened his mouth as wide as he could, and devoured each and every one like they were a lifeline. It was messy, impolite, and most likely terribly barbaric to watch, but Esther’s airy laughter filled his ears like music anyway.

He had crumbs all along his chin, caught in the stubble that never seemed to disappear, even though he shaved frequently, and though the cookies were burnt, they were easily the best thing Bigby had eaten in years.

Perhaps his whole life.


	2. End of Solstice

Solstice was halfway over, and if Bigby had a nagging worry that Esther’s kindness would disappear from his life once the festival ended, he did his best to squash it from his mind.

She had come earlier today, mid-afternoon instead of right before dusk, saying that she had finished her chores around the abbey early and Bigby secretly hoped that might mean he’d get more time with the little Vestal, though he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to make Esther feel obligated to stay in his presence any longer than she wanted to, and the fact that she  _ did  _ seem to want to at all still surprised the Abomination. 

This time, the woman brought with her a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. 

Bigby eyed it, bewildered -- did she want him to take a bath? He could probably use one, since the stream he normally bathed in was iced over, but he was mortified at the thought of doing so while Esther was near. 

“No burnt cookies today, sorry,” she said with her usual pleasant voice, and Bigby wondered what in Light’s sake she felt the need to apologize for. The bucket sloshed with suds as Esther roughly set it down into the snow, and Bigby caught the acrid whiff of vinegar within the water as well, which only confused him further. She then flexed her arms and rubbed at her wrists; carrying the bucket this far from the abbey mustn’t have been easy for the small girl, and Bigby instantly felt a pang of guilt as if he’d coerced her to do so somehow. He almost apologized before she continued, “The Father had me cleaning the rust off the abbey’s fence caused from the snow. It made me realize how rusted  _ your  _ chains must be as well.”

The pull of his heart shocked Bigby, choked him, and Esther looked up at the noise it made.

“We don’t have to, if you prefer them that way!” Esther quickly amended, hands up as if she’d insulted him. Bigby grit his teeth, clenched them in an agonized frown and felt shamed, felt  _ cared for _ , overwhelmed by the Vestal’s thoughtfulness. His chains truly were rusted from where they dragged in the snow, but he had barely spared them any thought. To realize that Esther had noticed and  _ cared… _

In lieu of a response, not trusting himself to find the right words or tone, Bigby merely extended his arms and let the chains dangle before her, being mindful to keep part of them wrapped over his shoulder and waist where the curse’s padlock held the Beast at bay. 

Esther seemed to relax and lowered her hands, then slowly smiled. Bigby liked that.

As she got to work, picking up one long chain link that was particularly rusted around the ends, she hummed a song Bigby couldn’t recognize. If it were a hymn from the church, Bigby had long ago fallen out of keeping track of their many songs and prayers and was only familiar with the hymns he had been taught before the mutation, before he’d been excommunicated.

For a long while, they sat together, Esther meticulous as she scrubbed the sponge between each joint of the chain, sending reddened water and vinegar into the snow between them, marring the pristine white with it like blood. The song stayed the Beast, who seemed to purr within Bigby’s mind at her nearness and at the rumble of her voice as she hummed along. Bigby liked her voice, liked listening to her swing through the notes of the song, and closed his eyes to better focus on it. After a while, she stopped humming and he opened his eyes again. 

“That was… b-beautiful,” he mumbled, fumbling with the compliment. He rarely had any reason to compliment  _ anyone  _ these days, and could only hope she wasn’t uncomfortable by it.

She wasn’t, apparently. Esther blushed and laughed, that sweet sound that rumbled something within the Beast, and cleared her voice before she spoke. “Thanks. It was a song my mother used to sing for me before…” 

So that was why Bigby didn’t recognize it, he mused. The laughter fell off from Esther’s voice as she let the sentence hang between them, awkward and interrupted only by the sound of her scrubbing and the tinkling of the chains. Bigby knew where that story most likely ended, based on how fractured Junia had been while she screamed for her mother before her death, taken away by the supposed ‘pigs of St. Martha’ by force.  _ Who would do that to a child _ , her sobs had said. 

It was a gruesome picture that Junia painted on death’s door, and Bigby remembered it vividly enough to relive it in his nightmares. The life of a Vestal was not an easy one, it seemed.

He looked up at Esther and whispered, “I-I’m sorry.”

By her silence, Bigby figured that would be the end of it until, a few minutes later, Esther switched chains and continued, “It took me a long time to forgive the nuns. I was disobedient in my grief, and they could be cruel at times.”

Bigby stiffened at that, at the idea of someone,  _ anyone _ , being cruel to Esther. The lass was defiant by nature, almost to a fault, and he remembered the way she had stood up to her religious superior for the vile likes of Bigby a couple days earlier. Even then, Bigby felt her bravado in the face of the Crusader’s righteous fury -- if she had been similarly rebellious as a mourning child, Bigby could only imagine the discipline she must have endured. 

Something possessive flickered in Bigby dangerously, and he bit it back, chalking it up to the Beast’s influence. 

“The church can indeed be c-cruel to those outside its order,” was all Bigby managed to say. He knew their scrupulous values and righteous retribution better than most, but an angry ember still smoldered within him at the thought of Esther having been taught the same, unforgiving lessons as he had. 

"They've left their marks on us both." The usual cheerfulness in her voice was nowhere to be found, filled instead with…  _ pain _ . Pain and understanding beyond her years as she reached up to the collar of her robe and pulled it aside far enough to expose --

_ Penance scars _ .

Those dark brown orbs met his and were filled with something akin to empathy. She was young, but clearly the world had not been kind to her, either; the Beast wanted to snarl, wanted to riot and and howl and rampage at the thought of the little Vestal being punished with whips. Of the little Vestal strung up and lashed and _bled for her_ ** _sins_** \--

His breaths became heavy. Smells became  _ sharper _ . Rage  **_burned_ ** in his blood and tore his  _ mouth  _ **_in a snarl_ ** . Images Esther falling to madness, of Junia dead at his feet filled his mind, and Bigby’s head suddenly felt as if it split and his vision  _ blurred  _ with pain. The Beast clawed at the door of command with an awakened fervor that he’d only felt in the heat of battle or in his early years of the curse. With time, Bigby had learned to better control the Beast’s influence to his advantage, but it rushed forward in his mind now like an unstoppable gale, bowing Bigby over. He fought it, desperate to keep the Beast at bay, but the air rotted in his mouth and turned his slaver to hot,  _ putrid  _ **_bile_ ** . 

“Bigby?” came the Vestal’s tiny voice, spoken as if from a great distance. 

Vision returned to him with the familiar sharpness of a predator and he knew his eyes must have darkened to the Beast’s monstrous black ones by the way Esther sucked in a fearful breath. He could smell her fear,  _ Gods _ , he could  **_taste it_ ** . She had dropped his chain and the sponge and held her hands up, not as defensively as she should have upon seeing Bigby’s partially transformed visage, but as if to grab him, help him,  _ stop him _ somehow.

The Beast keened at that, breathed her in and tried to snatch her close **_,_ ** _ wanted to yank her into his clutches  _ **_and never allow her to leave._ **

He pulled away from Esther harshly, wanting nothing more than to tell her to  _ run _ , but in doing so, slipped the loosened chain from his shoulder that helped him to contain the Beast, and with a shock of  **_horror_ ** , felt the Beast finally surging to control them.

When Bigby transformed in battle, it was like his mind faded to black, giving him just enough cognizance to ravage their enemies while reigning in the violence against his companions. It was why keeping Bigby sane was so important to the expedition, lest he lose his mind fully and turn on the party. He had learned absolution entirely for the sake of managing his stress against both outside forces and the Beast itself. 

Now, though, he felt like he was drowning. 

_ No, no,  _ **_NO_ ** _. _

He felt helpless as he watched Esther move away to clutch at the trunk of their tree, then fell against it in her haste. Bigby wasn't sure what exactly the Beast wanted with the Vestal by the way it was drinking in the scent of her every shaky exhale, whether it was to maim her or eat her or  _ worse _ , but Bigby had to stop it. It was feral,  **_carnal_ ** , and it sickened him.

With agonizing force, Bigby willed himself back in control, feeling as if he were lifting a brigand pounder with the strain of it, mind rending in twain for an excruciating moment as the Beast fought against him. His snout was full of the Vestal, drooling maw desperate for a taste, claws raking the earth with barely restrained violence, and after a brutal, savage, furious moment, Bigby heard his roar wither back to a more human-like wail. The power of speech slowly returned to him as his teeth shrank, searing bile dissolving to spittle that dripped from his human mouth into the snow. His head ached dully as the horns receded and his claws blunted back to broad fingers that clutched at his pulsing scalp. 

“No, no,  _ please _ ,” he moaned to the Beast, to  _ himself _ , voice still harsh and wrecked from the transformation. “Please,  **_no_ ** .”

It was over. He felt himself return to normal, which was little comfort after having lost control in the first place. His body ached from the stress of it and he was afraid of meeting Esther’s eyes, who called his name softly, clearly shaken. “Bigby?”

He shook his head with enough force to rattle his cleaned chains. “No,  _ no. _ ”

“ _ Bigby… _ ”

“I-I-I kn-knew this would h-h-happen,” his voice trembled in a whisper. The reality of what he’d almost done, of the blood nearly on his hands once more, of the upturned snow and dirt, and he shouted hoarsely with his head still buried in his hands. “N-Not safe, it’s n-not safe, I kn-knew this w-would -- ”

His frantic mumbling was clipped short when he felt something hit him and he looked up; Esther had thrown a snowball at him, dark eyes wide with concern. Had he been transforming again? Without noticing? He couldn’t trust the Beast, couldn’t trust  _ himself  _ \--

“Bigby,  _ stop _ ,” Esther pleaded. “You’re bleeding.”

Surprised, he looked at his hands and saw blood at the fingertips: he must have dug what was left of his Beastly claws into his scalp amidst his self-inflicted madness. A moment later, Bigby felt a soothing wave of healing magic wash over him, making him shiver from the warm sensation, and he looked up, shocked at what he saw, feeling that he must surely be hallucinating. 

Esther was  _ smiling.  _

She still seemed shaken, but her lips were turned up at the corners, pulled into a tight smile that parted when she breathed, “You stayed in control, Bigby. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Esther, I… I-I  _ could  _ have -- ”

“But you  _ didn’t _ ,” she insisted. She sounded almost  _ proud  _ of him. Bigby gaped at her, looked to the marks he left in the snow and imagined for a horrific moment if that had been the Vestal, then flinched at the thought and cowered into his shroud again. He couldn’t handle this, couldn’t handle her smiling at him despite the very  _ real  _ danger she’d been in moments ago. 

“ _ LEAVE ME  _ **_ALONE_ ** _ ,”  _ he sobbed, and when Esther took a hesitant step  _ towards  _ him instead, Bigby grabbed the bucket she had brought, still filled with ice-cold water and vinegar, and with a burst of the Beast’s strength,  _ hurled  _ it as far as he could. “ _ Please _ ,” he broke down.

Finally, she ran. 

Ran the way Bigby knew she would, eventually, from the very start, Bigby  _ knew  _ that he would be alone again, because that’s all he knew how to be.

Alone with the Beast.

…

The next day passed with no sign of the little Vestal. Bigby hadn’t been expecting her, and certainly hadn’t been  _ hoping  _ for her evening visit, he firmly told himself, not after he so ferociously chased her way. 

_ This is what you wanted _ , he had to remind himself every few restless minutes. 

Even well into the night, when the festival was in full swing in the town’s square, then later on when the Lights had gone out one by one while the Hamlet slept, Bigby had to remind himself. Esther was finally safe from him, safe from the horrible things the Beast would internally howl for each time she was near, and safe from what the others would think if they knew of their friendship.

This is what he wanted, Bigby thought punishingly as he felt the pricks of pain leak from his eyes to the snow while he drifted off to sleep.

…

On the eighth day of Solstice, Bigby found himself wandering down to the Hamlet. 

He knew the little Vestal wouldn’t be visiting him again tonight,  _ or ever again _ he reminded himself distantly, and was already dreading the evenings without her visits. In less than a week and equipped only with a gentle kindness, Esther had managed to worm her way into Bigby’s deadened heart. Though it had been such a short amount of time, he’d become  _ fond  _ of her presence.

The thought that he’d forever be without it now, after warming his weary bones to her endless warmth, it choked Bigby with self-loathing.

And it was his own, damned fault. 

Aimless and agitated, Bigby decided he needed not only a distraction but a reminder of why it was so imperative to chase Esther away. Of why it was safer for her this way, and why Bigby had to sever ties before they were made.

That meant a long-overdue visit to the graveyard. 

A visit to Junia.

The graveyard was detached from the abbey, but was still located close enough to the entrance of the church that Bigby opted to sneak in the back way instead, hopping over the fence easily enough and landing in a crouch. He’d purposefully been avoiding this place, full of stress and nightmares, but now, strangely, he was indescribably compelled to visit. To give Junia his apology, his thanks, and his goodbye. 

It was immediately obvious which grave was hers, decorated as it was. Junia had been a beloved champion Vestal after all, and her headstone reflected the appropriate honors of one. 

Another unexpected difference between her headstone and the many others were a dozen candles mounted atop the stone in a line, and of the twelve, only seven had been melted down to depleted nubs, bordered with wax drippings down the sides of the headstone. Bigby kneeled down, unsure of what to do next -- he had been religious back when that had mattered, back when he was allowed to be, but no longer. Instead, he wracked his memory for the Verses Junia spoke of most, and began to recite them.

“Verse LXI: When all is lost, stand firm. The Flame endures.” 

On and on, he allowed himself to relive every moment he had spent with her, few that they were, remembering every little saying she would instill in him with her adamant voice, as if determined that she might save Bigby if he only minded his Verses. 

“Verse XV: What grace has given me, may it pass on to you.”

When Damian would sneer at Bigby’s presence, and when Reynauld would outright  _ shun  _ his presence, Junia would merely sigh disapprovingly and recite another Verse.

“Verse XXIV: The blackest nights are always followed by dawn.” 

He let the tears fall freely, then, tears of shame, tears of regret. Tears of self-loathing. If only Bigby had stepped out of line, if only he had kept from transforming, if only he had known then what he knew now.  _ If only, if only, if only.  _ There were too many apologies bubbling at his lips for him to continue her Verses; they wouldn’t save him anyway, just as they hadn’t saved Junia. 

No, the only thing that could have saved her in the end was if Bigby hadn’t been there. The religious ones had the right of things from the start, and the Abomination shouldn’t have been allowed in their hallowed presence, for the Beast brought nothing but tragedy, death and despair in kind to those around him. He still remembered the way Junia had made the symbol of Light at her chest before insisting that she accompany them as their only Vestal. At the time, Junia seemed unphased by the looks of shock she received from her holy brethren, insisting that Bigby could be trusted after so many months in the Hamlet without incident.

Bigby had soared with pride and hope then, he remembered. Light above, he would have given  _ anything  _ to prove himself to the Vestal after her vote of confidence. Now, with her shrieks of laughter and throes of death haunting his mind, Bigby would give anything to take it back. To step out of line and know his place from without. 

He had forgotten his place as an Abomination. Bigby would never forget again.

The crunch of snow behind him startled him upright, and if he had remembered to be mindful and alert for other visitors amid his grief, Bigby might have been able to run, or to hide, but he’d been caught off guard.

Behind him stood Reynauld, ever tall and regal, ever  _ threatening _ , and Bigby felt a spike of panic. Had Esther told him of what had happened two days ago? Had Reynauld come to put an end to Bigby’s reign of profane terror on the Hamlet? Would Junia’s final resting place also become his own? That seemed oddly fitting, so Bigby merely hung his head in shame in preparation of whatever came next.

What he  _ hadn’t  _ been expecting was for Reynauld to step forward and stand next to him before Junia’s headstone, tall and confident while Bigby was bowed over in the dirt and snow.

Reynauld spoke with a stiff voice, “Solstice Eve was her favorite holiday, you know.” 

Bigby knew.

He didn’t say  _ how  _ he knew -- having overheard it said in passing from the very man at his side -- and remained quiet. If he was to die here, for his crimes against Junia, Esther, against humanity as a whole, he would not beg for kindness. Not when it had been given to him  _ twice  _ now, only to become ash in his wanting hands.

“It seems unfair for  _ her  _ to be gone and for  _ you  _ to remain instead,” came the spiteful, well-deserved anger. Junia had been loved by all, even by Bigby who in contrast, had been  _ hated  _ by all. At this, Bigby nodded his agreement, and Reynauld snorted. 

“I would do a-a-anything to switch p-places with her,” Bigby mourned.

Silence settled between them, broken only by Bigby’s occasional sniffling, which he tried to do as quietly as possible. Perhaps he should leave, he thought. Reynauld came to pay his respects  _ alone _ , without the person who drove Junia to madness, surely, but Bigby didn’t know how to leave politely, and waited to be dismissed instead. Eventually, though, when Reynauld spoke again, his voice was thoughtful, pensive, still laced with anger but with a vitriol that didn’t seem entirely pointed at Bigby anymore. 

“The Light works in mysterious ways, as she always said. I don’t know why the Light chose for  _ you  _ to live, Abomination, but wishing your own death is a poor way to honor  _ her  _ memory,” Reynauld bit out, face red with what felt like barely restrained rage. It was the first emotion Bigby could relate to from the Crusader, and was shocked at his underhandedly forgiving words. “Which is why I haven’t killed you myself.”

Bigby surprised himself by laughing through his tears, a short bark of humor despite Reynauld being dead serious. 

That only made it funnier to Bigby, that the only thing keeping him alive at this point was the champion Vestal’s death. Both he and Reynauld had contemplated ending his pitiful existence as retribution for Junia’s violent passing, yet she was the sole reason neither of them could bring themselves to go through with it. It was a surprising impasse they shared.

The only thing the two men seemed to have in common was their love for Junia and their hate for Bigby, and it was a relief to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. At the unadulterated  _ anguish  _ of it. Even Reynauld, a monument of a man, serious by nature, huffed a laugh as well.

When the silence finally settled between them, it felt… less strained, perhaps. Nothing fond or comfortable, and Bigby was sure that Reynauld still hated him, but Bigby no longer feared the Crusader’s scorn and instead welcomed it. It was their only common ground, after all. After a long moment, Reynauld heaved a deep, world-weary sigh and ran a hand down his face before saying, “If you want to make it up to Junia, you can start by being kinder to her successor. That girl has a heart of gold to care for the likes of you. I certainly don’t understand it. Though perhaps…” Reynauld stopped, as if contemplating what to share with Bigby and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps we would all be better to follow her example. As Junia had attempted from the start.”

Bigby took a shaky breath at that. His heart ached all over, from Junia’s missing presence, so obvious and haunting, to Reynauld’s reluctant truce with him, to Esther’s heart of gold that he certainly didn’t deserve, but  _ wanted  _ to deserve. “I want… to be b-better,” Bigby answered, frown quivering with his unbridled flurry of emotions. “I’m… I’m lonely, Reynauld.”

He said it like a dirty secret, like a weakness meant to break his foundation of unshakeable isolation, self-imposed or otherwise. 

Reynauld merely nodded, surprisingly understanding for a man so seemingly put-together like a stronghold of the Light. He dug into his tabard then and withdrew some flint, not unlike how Esther had done their second night together, then hesitantly offered it to Bigby.

“Th-thank you,” Bigby mumbled, then carefully took the flint from the man…

...and with a full heart, heavy with regrets and hope in equal measure, Bigby struck the match of the eighth candle atop Junia’s grave and said a final prayer.

…

Bigby wasn’t sure how to approach the Vestal. He was certain he had done exactly what he had intended from the start and thoroughly scared Esther off from him permanently. That had been three days ago, and somehow Reynauld’s blessing on the matter emboldened Bigby to seek the lass out to apologize for the Beast’s appearance, then also for forcing her away.

His best bet was to find Esther at the abbey, but he hesitated at the thought. Just because Reynauld had accepted him -- or rather, agreed not to kill him -- didn’t mean the other holy folk would be as welcoming. 

So, Bigby followed the path they had taken to the Altar of Light, picked out a table, and waited.

He was generally a very patient person, but found himself fidgeting with anxiety as the hours passed and Bigby played out scenarios in his mind, all of them ending terribly for him. Would she see him and immediately run away? Would she scowl and order him gone from such a holy place?  _ Would she even show up at all? _ His mind was a blur with nerves and he bounced his leg mindlessly, shaking the chains as he did so. What would he even say to her, if given the chance, Bigby wondered. 

The ever-present Beast within growled hungrily at the Vestal’s eventual approach, but Bigby stamped the sensation down in favor of jolting upright at her familiar scent. 

When she turned the corner, she stopped in surprise.

“ _ Bigby _ ?” 

Panic filled him -- he hadn’t thought this far ahead -- so he acted on impulse and grabbed the bucket by his feet, the one he had hurled into the trees the day he had transformed in his rage, and held it out to her like a peace offering. “I-I brought your b-b-bucket.”

She took it from him, looking rightfully bewildered as she examined it. Bigby had spent that morning fetching it from where he had thrown it which, with the remnants of the Beast’s strength and fury at the time, had taken quite a while to find. Afterwards, he had used the bucket for a bath, which likewise had taken a while since he hadn’t bathed since their last expedition; the lakes and streams had all been frozen over, so he was forced to use Paracelsus’ water supply. 

“Are you feeling better now?” Esther asked, and again, Bigby was dumbstruck by her affinity for kindness to him. Shouldn’t  _ he  _ be asking that of  _ her _ ?

“Y-Yes,” he responded sheepishly. “I… I’m sorry, Esther.” 

It was the first time he had uttered her name, and the feel of it was  _ right  _ to Bigby.

The little Vestal merely placed the bucket down and smiled in return, a beautiful thing that instantly soothed Bigby’s endless worries and left him with that tempting sense of peace as she was prone to do. Even from day one, when she had first approached him, Esther radiated warmth when Bigby had only ice in his heart.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she assured him, and Bigby had a hard time believing that. “You were able to restrain yourself, after all.”

“B-But I…” the memory of her face drawn in fear, flashed before his mind. “I  _ scared  _ you.”

“That’s true,” Esther hummed in agreement, but quickly shrugged that off as if it had never happened, or as if it were something frivolous and not a man turning into a feral beast. “But didn’t I scare you at first as well?”

Bigby stopped at that, brow drawn as he remembered their meeting over a week ago now, and how nervous and on edge Bigby had been at Esther’s approach. He hadn’t trusted her, had been so sure that the little Vestal was trouble for him somehow, perhaps some cosmic karma sent to punish Bigby for his sins against their last Vestal. Even now, Esther confused him, confused  _ all  _ of them it seemed, but he no longer expected her to be some lovely harbinger of punishment. 

She was still waiting for an answer, so Bigby nodded slowly. “I s-suppose you did.”

“Then consider us even.”

It seemed as simple as that, but it couldn’t be, not after what Bigby had done, not after exposing the Beast to her. People had gone mad,  _ Junia  _ had gone mad, because the transformation was such a stressful nightmare for the others in the party. “I-I was certain… that you w-would be gone for…” He swallowed thickly. “For g-good.” 

Esther furrowed her dark eyebrows, taking that into consideration and worrying gently at her bottom lip. “I wanted to give you space, Bigby. I thought you were upset with me.”

“ _ No _ ,” Bigby choked out, furious with himself for allowing the kind woman to think that.

He shivered, then, cold beyond belief even with his higher body temperature courtesy of the Beast’s incessant heat. He wouldn’t come down with hypothermia, he was pretty sure, but the cold from his bath and still-damp shroud and icy shackles at his wrists all but chased away any comfort he might have had otherwise. Not that he  _ deserved  _ comfort -- did he? He wasn’t sure; self-forgiveness and renewed absolution were unsteady, constantly shifting grounds for him. 

In his distraction, mind warring with new wants and old martyrdom, he didn’t notice Esther approaching him and unclasping her own coat, then moving to drape it gently over his bowed shoulders. 

Bigby flinched as the fabric, hot with Esther’s body heat and heady with her scent, enveloped him wholly and the noise that slipped past his guard embarrassed Bigby.

The Vestal just smiled at him, kind as ever, and said, “I’ll be back for that tomorrow.”

…

_ Warmth.  _

Bigby was warm.  _ Too warm,  _ almost, and simultaneously  **_not warm enough_ ** . 

It was an all-encompassing heat,  _ burning  _ him alive and making him whole when he was once fractured and alone. He reveled in it during his sleep, he and the Beast  _ both _ , and when Bigby awoke too-hot the next morning, he forced himself to forget any dreams he might have had of her warmth.

In respect for his friend, Bigby hushed the Beast’s incessant howls for  _ more  _ as the day passed and Bigby prepared for Esther’s visit.

…

“Wh-what’s this?” Bigby asked as Esther approached their tree. It was day ten of the festival, nearing its climax of winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, and having gone three days without Esther nightly visit, Bigby found himself buzzing with excitement. Not excitement and nerves, not excitement and guilt, just pure, wonderous excitement. He was still bundled beneath her cloak, despite being far too large for it, but he was careful not to tear it on accident. 

He hadn't been expecting the Vestal to bring him something, of course, but neither was he surprised by the small bag in her hands, steaming the frigid air with warmth -- Bigby sniffed at it, and the smell was familiar.

"See for yourself!" she chirped, seeming equally as excited. 

She held out the bag for him to take as she had done before, and Bigby was just as cautious as he carefully plucked the bag between his fingers, but this time he smiled awkwardly at her. It felt strange on his face, like his muscles had forgotten how to manage it, but Esther merely grinned back.

As Bigby untied the bow of twine keeping the pouch sealed, he caught a better whiff of the spicy sweet steam and knew instantly what he held. 

"M-More cookies?"

Esther beamed as he opened the bag fully to show perfectly round, perfectly cooked brown discs; a stark contrast to the cookies she had given him a week prior, but just as thoughtful. Bigby's stomach lurched loudly at the sight, embarrassingly so, and after days of being too anxious to eat, Bigby knew he couldn't chalk this up to the Beast's voracity, but instead his own. Esther heard it, and she laughed charmingly before saying, "I've been practicing baking in your absence."

_ In his absence.  _ The thought still left Bigby stricken with shame, that the little Vestal had been chased away and stayed away per his wishes.  _ Never again _ , Bigby assured himself. He would be more careful with his emotions, and more importantly, be more careful with letting Esther make her  _ own  _ decisions about him instead of making them  _ for _ her.

"Thank you, Esther," Bigby tried to smile again, surprised at his lack of a nervous stutter.

When he took a bite, restrained and polite this time, it filled his mouth with an overwhelming sweetness that Bigby momentarily lost himself in. Bigby’s meals were mostly rations, occasionally small bowls of grain and vegetables shared with Paracelsus or dead animals that the Beast had hunted. Nothing so sugary and delicate as a  _ cookie _ . It melted in his mouth the way the other ones had crumbled, and Bigby could all but  _ taste _ the effort that went into them and he savored it on his tongue.

Esther was watching him, a strange nervousness lining her youthful face, until Bigby tried to smile again. Those were coming easier today, it seemed.

" _ Well? _ "

She was nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet from excitement, and Bigby surprised them both with a low chuckle. Between her and Reynauld, this was more than Bigby had laughed in months, and it sounded just as rusted and creaky as his voice had been when Esther first approached him. She didn’t seem to mind, luckily.

He responded as honestly as he could. "It's the b-b-best thing I've ever tasted."

His candor earned him an exasperated sound and a roll of earthen eyes from the Vestal, who huffed, "No need to flatter me, Bigby -- " then stopped abruptly when she realized that he wasn't. 

That he was being  _ sincere _ . 

That these cookies, along with the last batch, were genuinely the best meals that Bigby had ever eaten, and it took a monstrous amount of effort not to desperately inhale them again.

Her round face softened, then, taking on a patient, saddened expression. Not pitying, never pitying, for Bigby knew that look well and shied from it when others pinned him to the ground with it, but just…  _ understanding _ . As Esther always managed to be with him. "Well, in that case, I'll make a fresh batch for you next week, and the week after that. I could use the practice after all.”

There was a sweetened lump in Bigby’s throat at that, the tender squeezing at his chest and painful pricking at his eyes that was becoming far too familiar lately. That meant Esther… wanted to continue to see him, even after the festival ended.

“Th-Thank you,” he whispered, embarrassed by the hitch in his voice.

Slowly,  _ agonizingly _ , Bigby gathered his meager courage and reached into the bag, pulled out a perfect cookie, warm and pillowy between his fingers, and offered it to Esther. It was ridiculous, it was  _ laughable _ , surely she had already tasted her own batch of cookies, so why was he bothering? He should just thank her, let her leave to participate in the festival --

She reached out and took the cookie graciously, no sign of mockery or ridicule on her pleasant face, then ate it in two dainty bites; after she finished it, she cleared her throat, and almost shyly, spoke, “I figured, since you’ve been growing, I could try and improve, too.”

Bigby furrowed his brow at her, perplexed as to how she could ever think to be better than she already was, further confused as to how Esther thought he’d been  _ growing _ , but with the sweet remnants of a cookie in his mouth and the Vestal’s cloak draped over his shoulders, he swallowed his confusion. Between her visits and Reynauld’s wisdom, Bigby had felt… lighter, lifted of his contempt and strangling regrets since Junia’s death, standing from the mud of his own self-hatred instead of wallowing in it. He was on his own two legs now, shaky from disuse, threatening to give and send him tumbling back into despair, but still managing to stand straighter.

He felt… determined, and when he spoke, he did it slowly to avoid his nervous stutter. “I want… to be better, Esther.”

The Vestal smiled dazzlingly, bright as any Light or Eternal Flame, and nodded in agreement. Her visit was longer this time, well into the night as they finished off the cookies together and when she left, she didn’t take her cloak back.

Hunger sated, shoulders warm, and heart bursting with fullness, it was the best sleep Bigby had gotten in as long as he could remember.

…

The next day’s visit came far earlier than any other had before and with it, a strange request that had Bigby instantly suspicious:

“Will you come to the abbey with me?” gently asked Esther, her question polite but meaningful. Bigby was immediately on edge, mind racing ahead of what was rational or even plausible -- had her friendship been a ploy to trap him at the cruel hands of the church after all? A trick to bring Bigby lower than he already was?  _ No _ , surely not, Esther didn’t seem capable of such malice, yet Bigby wanted nothing more than to shrink away, to deny the only request she had asked of him thus far, and found that he couldn’t bring himself to. Not after everything Esther had done for him, and not after telling her of his desire to be better. “There’s something I want to show you.”

With little else to say, Bigby reluctantly nodded his assent and headed towards town.

The abbey was towering in an intimidating way and came into view almost the moment they descended the hill together, walking closer than they had when Esther made tea for him, but still a respectable distance for any onlookers.

And there certainly were onlookers.

Esther took the main path to the church, the one Bigby always avoided because it was the busiest street in the Hamlet and he dreaded being a spectacle to the denizens of the Hamlet who were all familiar with the Beast’s reputation. He could feel the stares on them, on  _ him _ , and automatically tried to make himself smaller, though he simultaneously wanted to draw closer to Esther for support and put a wide berth between them for the sake of her position. 

When they arrived at the abbey’s long staircase to the very imposing front doors, Bigby paused, feeling panic clutching at his insides. 

He was deliberately entering a realm that condemned him,  _ despised  _ his existence no matter how much he despised it in equal measure, too. The followers of the Light had never been  _ dangerous  _ for him to be around before, but that was mainly because Bigby never gave them the opportunity to be. Here, now, he was delivering himself right into their powerful clutches. 

His hands were balled into fists at his side as if he could squeeze the anxiety from his mind, as if he could  _ will  _ himself to be stronger, courageous, someone who deserved Esther’s kindness instead of someone who wanted to turn tail and run as far as he could from this --

Something warm brushed one of his fists, the touch instantly catching his full attention.

A tiny, dainty hand was blanketing Bigby’s larger, rougher one, still balled into a fist tight enough that the greenish veins bulged beneath his skin in sharp contrast to Esther’s very…  _ human  _ one. It was ugly and terrible in comparison, with hairs and cracked knuckles and  _ scars _ , all lost beneath the unforgettable weight of the bulky shackle at his thin wrist. His breath vanished from his lungs in an instant, a carnal  _ fear  _ blanking his mind -- of being touched, of the pain it always brought, of the inevitable transformation that was born from unexpected physical contact…

...but the Beast remained  _ calm _ . 

Esther merely smiled up at him, as she always seemed to do, then gently tugged at his hand until he followed her up the stairs.

When they passed through the doors and into the abbey’s threshold, Bigby couldn’t help but flinch. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting upon his entrance, whether it would be grim and dark and housing an angry mob at the nave or whether he would simply burst into flames from the Light. 

Bigby released the breath he was holding when he saw the actual beauty within. 

The church was decorated for the twelve days of Solstice in glittering gold and finery, stained glass depicting the Verses and regal tapestries hung along every wall, with lanterns, candles, braziers, all illuminating the abbey in a staggering, opulent light.

At the altar stood the old, haggard abbot who peered at them from over his glasses, face darkening at Bigby’s appearance, while Damian was peeking past the penance hall archway curiously. Neither of them cursed his existence or threatened him out of their sights, surprisingly, perhaps because of Esther’s presence alongside him, still guiding him to one of the transepts along the side. Bigby swallowed, his heart in his throat, feeling as wild of an animal as ever despite his human form. 

Esther’s hand on his was the only thing steadying him, keeping him from bolting back the way they came in a path of desperate destruction. 

On one of the small tables was a strange selection of objects laid out on display that seemed… distinctive from everything else in the church. Esther approached the table and finally released his hand, and though Bigby managed to relax under the abbot’s stony gaze, his hand felt far colder without her touch to anchor him. 

“Th-this is what you w-wanted to show me?” 

He winced at the sound of his own stuttering words; despite how quietly he always spoke, now his voice sounded far too loud for the decorated stone walls enclosing them and echoed jarringly. The little Vestal nodded to the strange objects -- a hat, a bottle, a scroll, a vial, and… an old book covered with a piece of parchment. None of them seem related, and when Esther asked him if he knew what they were, Bigby merely shook his head.

“They’re your gifts!”

She said it plainly, as if stating a simple, well-known fact, but Bigby blankly stared at her as if she were speaking another language entirely, now more confused than ever. They were gifts?  _ For him?  _ It wasn’t registering, his mind grappling and fumbling with the concept.

“ _ Here _ ,” Esther said with playful exasperation and grabbed the handmade wool hat. “Audrey knitted this for you as a Solstice gift last week, but no one could find you at the festival. She said you told her that your head is the only part of you that frequently gets cold in winter.” Bigby was dumbstruck at the thought, almost in disbelief, as if this were part of some prank, because he and Audrey were cordial enough, though he wouldn’t consider them  _ friends…  _ would he? Memories flooded him of the Grave Robber teasing him at the campfire, staying up with him to keep watch, wandering the grounds when Bigby was restless and unable to sleep. 

He had assumed it was because Audrey didn’t trust him, but doubt seeped into the cracks of that idea as he took the handmade hat from Esther and carefully ran his hand along the delicate material. 

It was… warm. Had she really made this for  _ him?  _ He recalled the Grave Robber asking if he was ever cold while on an expedition to the cove recently, wearing just his threadbare pants and ratty shawl, as she stayed up late to poke fun at his sense of ‘style’. Audrey always loved to poke fun at him, but Bigby had eventually learned that her gallow’s humor was never done out of spite, but because she wanted him to jest back. He wasn’t that confident yet, but he would try, the next time he saw her.

Bigby looked to the rest of the items on the table in awe -- they were all for  _ him? _

Esther followed his gaze and grabbed the next item, which was a bottle of cheap brandy, then held it out to him. “This one’s from Dismas. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if you drink, since you’re never at the tavern, but he told me all about how you saved his life in the ruins a few months ago.”

_ It hadn’t been a big deal _ , Bigby wanted to say, but found his throat too tight to speak properly. They had been sent by the Heir to put an end to the Gibbering Prophet once and for all, and when the decrepit madman brought down a heavy rubble of ruin above Dismas’ head, Bigby shielded the Highwayman and took the blow for him. He had been in Beast form and had a far greater chance of surviving the blow than Dismas had, already weakened and stressed from their battles beforehand, so it was only logical to risk  _ himself  _ over Dismas. 

It wasn’t a big deal, or so he thought, but the bottle of brandy in his hands said otherwise and he forced himself to breathe through the ache in his chest.

Perhaps he could share it with Dismas, if the other man would allow it.

“Next!” Esther announced as if Bigby weren’t falling apart next to her. “This one’s from the Occultist, Alhazred. He’s a strange fellow, but he’s always a gentleman to me despite our… differences.” With that, she handed him the scroll, rolled neatly and tied, then sealed, with a waxy mark of the Iron Crown of the void. It felt… ominous and powerful in Bigby’s hand, somehow, as if thrumming with energy. “I’m not sure about that item. Alhazred told me you both share an occupation in…  _ abyssal pursuits _ , and that this scroll might interest you. He didn’t go into details, but seemed eager for your insight,” the small woman hummed pensively. 

Bigby wasn’t sure what to make of that: a refined, centuries old scholar was eager for  _ his  _ insight? The two men had spoken at length regarding their mutual afflictions with the void, though Alhazred called his a communal sacred ‘pact’, whereas Bigby’s arrangement with the Beast was far less… collaborative in nature. 

Still, it was a rarity that he could speak to anyone about the Beast without revulsion, and Bigby felt a growing excitement, small at first, at seeing the Occultist again and being able to speak of his curse without fear of retribution.

The vial was next to last, which contained a ruby red liquid within, and Bigby recognized it to be from Paracelsus’ clinic.

Esther grabbed the vial and curiously held it up to the light for him, then spoke, “Your doctor friend asked me to give you this. I’m not so sure I’ve ever seen a Solstice gift quite like it, but she said you should be able to find a good use for this particular tincture.”

Thinking back to the seemingly endless experiments Paracelsus had done on him over the past few weeks, Bigby furrowed his brow. “W-Will it help to t-temper the Beast?”

“Actually,” Esther sounded sheepish for a moment, then huffed a tiny laugh. “She mentioned that it would  _ strengthen  _ the Beast while you’re transformed, and to use it sparingly.” Bigby’s eyebrow immediately shot up, confused as to why the Plague Doctor would want to  _ support  _ the Beast rather than stamp it out of existence, and thought back to her morbid curiosity when it came to his more violent nature. Paracelsus had never been afraid of the Beast, and instead encouraged Bigby to explore it further -- which he never felt was possible to do without endangering others, but after holding the Beast back from Esther, he felt a foreign surge of confidence. 

Perhaps Paracelsus’ strange tincture could be useful to him after all, if Bigby could learn how to better harness the Beast’s destructive violent tendencies and thus wield it to keep his friends safe in battle.

Finally, only the book and parchment paper was left, though Bigby was already moved to amazement by the gifts so far, and even more so by what they represented. He never would have imagined any of his fellow adventurers remembering the likes of him during the winter Solstice, much less getting him such thoughtful gifts. It was as surreal as a daydream and Bigby felt as if he were in a fog, until Esther handed him the book; he recognized what it was instantly.

It was a weathered Versebook, worn around the edges from use but otherwise kept in pristine condition and on the note, in block script, was:

_ Her first Versebook. _

_ Take care of it. _

_ Verse XXIV: The blackest nights are always followed by dawn. _

_ \- Reynauld _

Bigby froze, heart shuddering to a near stop as he ran a monstrous hand down the front of it, pain and regrets welling up behind his eyes, and he quickly clutched the book to his chest as if it might dam the rushing flood of emotions. 

He shouldn’t have this,  _ he would ruin it,  _ **_just like he ruined_ ** \--

“Was she important to you?”

Foolish, sheepish, Bigby lowered the Versebook, looking from the note to Esther, then tried to smile at her but couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift his heavy sorrows, so he merely nodded. After a long moment of silence, of forcing himself to remember Reynauld’s words at the graveyard regardless of how desperately Bigby just wanted to wallow in the mud of his mind, Bigby explained, “She was… the first p-person of the ch-church to treat me as a human b-being.”

Esther smiled at that, as if proud of her predecessor but quickly abandoned the gesture when she noticed the way Bigby’s frowned deepend at her, cutting harsh lines into his gaunt face made sharper by the many flickering candles. 

“And the B-Beast drove her to madness.”

The little Vestal took a step closer but Bigby flinched from her, so she stopped and clutched her hands together as if in prayer, his admission hanging between them like a bad omen. He could feel the righteous statues of Saints past, staring down at him with heavy judgment, driving him into the rot of despair and wondering why the likes of a profane Abomination was allowed within their sanctity of Light. 

When Esther finally spoke, her voice was grave, serious, reminiscent of when she had shown Bigby her penance scars the week prior. “Sir Baldwin told me that your party had been fighting the Shambler, and hearing its wailing lament is what pushed Junia to her breaking point. He also told me that it was  _ you  _ who delivered the killing blow to the creature.”

He remembered it vividly. The gore dripping from his maw, the death throes of his holy companion, the hollow victory of bloodied tentacles still lashing at his feet. They were forced to retreat after that, lest they leave behind Junia’s body.

The others had agreed that their Champion Vestal deserved a proper burial in lieu of an empty grave.

“I-If I h-h-hadn’t b-been there -- ”

Bigby choked on his words, shamed, but Esther merely answered, “Then they  _ all  _ might have died.” She said it without pause, without a modicum of doubt, and Bigby clung to her words, clung to the Versebook, clung to whatever absolution he might have been allowed from Esther, from Reynauld, from Junia, like a lifeline. Suddenly, the abbot’s frown and the statue’s stares were pushed from his mind, guilt too heavy for him to continue carrying, in order to consider new beginnings. 

He wasn’t sure if he  _ deserved  _ new beginnings, but the others seemed to think so.

Junia had thought so.

When he felt Esther’s hand on his once more, he didn’t flinch from it, didn’t shy away from the human touch and didn’t fear becoming the Beast against his will. Instead, he simply turned his palm over and held her tiny hand in his scarred one. 

…

At last, it was the final day of Solstice. 

In all of his life, Bigby doubted he had been as excited for anything else as he made his way into the Hamlet, and even the side glances and noticeable leeway given to him by the passing townspeople couldn’t detract from his mood.

It had taken a matter of twelve days, more or less, for Bigby to somewhat overcome the guilt and self-loathing that had been building up since his curse with the Beast, amplified further by Junia’s untimely passing. He hadn’t fully forgiven himself of his sins and wasn’t sure if he ever could, but he wasn’t as tempted to surrender to the intrusive need to end his life in repentance of another. For the first time in years, Bigby didn’t feel as alone and  _ trapped  _ with the Beast within his mind.

He no longer felt  _ lonely _ . 

Bigby marveled at that as he made his way to Paracelsus’ clinic, smiling smally anytime he encountered another adventurer, certain that he looked ridiculous but forcing himself to all the same. When he passed Dismas entering the tavern, Alhazred by the athenaeum, and Audrey exiting the clinic, he mumbled a quiet thanks to each of them and stuttered when they all grinned in return, growing something tender in Bigby’s chest.

Paracelsus had spent her recent days with Bigby and didn’t seem surprised at his appearance, but quickly waved off his gratitude at her gift for him, for the Beast.

In between experiments, the doctor had helped Bigby tend to the daisy sapling, now in full bloom, its delicate petals pearly white and soft to the touch, and Bigby felt a ridiculous swell of pride at the small flower. It should have been long dead with the winter, but with a collaborative effort, the sapling became something strong and beautiful. 

_ Resilient _ , as Esther had once described it.

Cradling it in his massive hand with a gentleness Bigby hadn’t believed himself capable of before now, he glanced up at Paracelsus who watched him with her perceptive eyes, and dared to ask, “C-Could you help me with one m-more thing, doctor?”

…

Bigby was elated.

He wondered whether or not he should simply wait at their tree for Esther to arrive before the last festival celebration, but found he couldn’t. He was too restless, fidgeting with his chains, and before he realized what he was doing, Bigby was walking towards the town square where the final night of Solstice would be held.

Already, massive braziers were placed and lit with the holy flame, chasing away the approaching dusk as if undeterred by the encroaching darkness that the longest night promised. 

Esther was tending to one of the many winter floral arrangements, petals and winter berries of greens and reds and whites, when she looked over and saw Bigby standing at the entrance of the town square. Her face lit up with surprise, brighter than any of the divine fires of the Solstice, and she quickly made her way over to him, nose pink and voice breathless when she finally came face to face with him. 

“Bigby! You finally decided to join the festival?”

He merely chuckled a short, soft sound that Esther grinned at, and said, “I have reason to j-join now.” 

The honesty in his words, in his meaning behind them, might have embarrassed Bigby days ago, but he felt…  _ safe  _ with Esther, welcomed even amid an environment he once mutually shunned and felt ostracized by.

“I… I have something for you,” Bigby fumbled, with his words and with the small charm carefully clutched in his hand. Paracelsus had spent all morning and afternoon helping Bigby craft the little daisy into a lovely pendant, a blossom reinforced with silver blessed by Reynauld who seemed far less reluctant to help the Abomination once he explained what it was for.

At Esther’s quizzical look, Bigby opened his hands for her, feeling a wave of pride wash over him as her earthen eyes widened and her breath caught between her teeth. 

“ _ The daisy _ …!”

“It finally…” Bigby took a steadying breath, then met Esther’s eyes. “Bloomed.”

Esther looked from him to the charm, crafted by friends and intended to reduce the Vestal’s stress when she wore it, then tentatively reached out and took the flower from him, holding it against the light of the brazier. It glimmered like something precious, priceless, something Bigby would have never thought possible to come from within the grasp of his terrible, beastly hands that seemed only able to eviscerate. 

When she lowered the charm, her dark eyes shone wet, glinting brighter than Bigby had ever seen them, churning with that very emotion that Bigby had been wrought with for days now; it startled him, seeing that look on Esther’s face, but not as much as what she did next.

With a happy noise parting her lips as Bigby’s only warning, Esther surged forward and flung her wiry arms around him.

Bigby froze against her, body as stiff as the St. Martha statues that had surrounded them the night before, his chest struck with something painful and tight, something choking all air from his lungs, that bubbled and simmered and  _ ached _ . The Beast was surprisingly silent, gone from his mind, empty that it currently was, thoughts blurred in all directions as his vision fogged and his heart wrenched. He tried to take a breath, to restart his body and gently push Esther away, but it instead came out as a strangled sound. 

The little Vestal’s arms were frail things compared to his own, but somehow still impossibly  _ strong  _ around him, strong enough to steady him, stronger than Bigby had ever felt on his own, even with the Beast. He was weak in her embrace, too weak to push her away despite being in the center of the Hamlet, the final night of Solstice starting around them, unabashed and unashamed. 

It was all Bigby could do to raise his own arms and circle them around Esther’s small frame, pressing her close while trying to be mindful of his heavy chains against her, letting that familiar pricking at his eyes overwhelm him.

It was all he could do to lean down and bury his tearstained face in the side of her cowl, unapologetically so, shivering at the smile he felt against his chest.

It was all he could do to take a deep, stuttering inhale…

...and sob in Esther's arms.

…

The remainder of the night was spent far more cheerfully once Bigby managed to dry his eyes, embarrassed at his outburst, but feeling euphoric regardless. With Audrey’s hat atop his head protecting his Abomination scar from both the cold and probing eyes, with Dismas’ bottle of brandy in hand and with Esther’s cloak draped over his shoulders, they entered the festival. At first, Bigby had been worried about his reception with the others, isolated that he usually was, but quickly realized that most of the fear within him that had festered like a neglected wound was unrealized. 

In fact, he was surprised by the  _ lack  _ of vitriol he felt.

Bigby wasn’t  _ social _ , not by any means, and frankly was just fine with letting Esther lead him around the square, flower charm at her neck, wide smile crinkling her lovely brown eyes. 

They ran into other adventurers around the celebration, including Audrey who laughed fondly at the hat perched atop his head the wrong way, apparently, and reached up to fix it for him. Bigby would have to be mindful not to wear it while he transformed, lest his Beast horns shred it to pieces. Later, he and Alhazred agreed to a day to meet and discuss the contents of the scroll in addition to further studies of the Void together; which squeezed at Bigby’s tender heart once more. He hadn’t been revered as a scientist since long before the Beast inhabited his soul.

Paracelsus gave him a rare smile when she saw the pendant in Esther’s possession, and even let the Vestal hug her the way she had with Bigby, patting the top of Esther’s head awkwardly, but patiently. When they bumped into Dismas, Bigby opened the bottle and they shared a drink together -- and since Bigby rarely drank in fear of losing control of the Beast, he felt the heady effects rather quickly and promised to join Dismas at the tavern sometime.

As the night passed, even Reynauld gave Bigby a stiff nod from across the final brazier being lit, and Bigby’s mind hummed with unfamiliar, yet ever-longed for,  _ acceptance _ . 

Dawn eventually peaked at the very tips of the horizon, hints of a new year rending the darkness of night at the birth of yellows and oranges and pinks, illuminating the inky black sky to a gradient wave of gentle blue instead. Rays of light blossomed and stretched towards the Hamlet like golden petals that glinted against Bigby’s freshly washed chains and promised warmth, renewed hope, better days to come. At his side, Esther’s face lit up with the arrival of the sun, and she looked to him with gold in her eyes and daisy at her neck, then her small hand found his once more.

In his mind, Bigby could hear Junia reciting what Reynauld had written to him the day before: The blackest nights are always followed by dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, if you read this far, I both applaud you and will love and cherish you forever, because this whole thing became so important to me.
> 
> It was supposed to be small, with Esther just knitting Bigby socks for Solstice and it touching Bigby's rotten heart, but... it clearly did not end as that. Abom/Vestal just give me some Beauty and the Beast vibes with a bit of Hunchback of Notre Dame unrequited love to go along with it. Sorry it was so cheesy, but if you read this far, please let me know what you think! I really just wanted Bigby to make a much-needed friend ;-;

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if anyone will even be interested in these two. There aren't many Bigby fics or friendship fics, so don't ask why I got so invested in it. I'm finishing up part two, though I don't expect this to be very popular haha. Hopefully it will at least be well-received! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I'll have another one-shot out tomorrow :)


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